Sundays’ poems are dedicated to Italian Poetry
*
il mio orto a spirale
ha prodotto abbondanza
.
nascondendo la struttura
non percorribile
.
nel suo pieno arrivata
la stagione
.
Se gradite ascoltare la versione audio e video della performance cliccate qui.
If you wish to hear and see the video of the poetic performance click here.
Yes, on Tuesday poems will be in English, as usual!
Sì, il martedì le poesie, come sempre, saranno pubblicate in inglese!
*
now it’s my turn
to be sitting on
a park bench
alone listening
something is coming
what is is coming
.
.
This was the only English poem performed on my first poetic reading after the Covid-19 lockdown, last weekend, when asked to do a public reading during the finissage of an art show Called Opulenza Vegetale (Vegetable Opulence). The performance took place in an old site, a church dated 1289, in Italy. If interested in a short video click here, Now.
*
lead me my heart
where I am welcomed
.
with joy and gratitude
hold me there with laughter
.
pin me with sweet thoughts
of greatness so that I may
.
shine forever not lamenting
nor lacking lead me
.
to my own
independence
.
The poem, written in August, I dedicate to all the people participating to the Generation Female Global Summit where I will be one of the speakers! I hope to see you there, tomorrow, where you can ask me questions or hear my story, it would be lovely. Please click here to enroll.
*
it scorches my skin
the summer heat
a violent grab
I pull away
under
the shade
of wise trees
protected
not scolded
.
.
Sundays are dedicated to Italian Poetry.
Vi invito a vedere e ad ascoltare questa poesia, Il posto giusto tratta dal libro bilingue California Notebooks 02 cliccando qui. Questa è la poesia di pagina 50.
Sì, la domenica le poesie sono in italiano e il martedì in inglese.
Tuesday poems will be published in English as usual.
If you own the bilingual book I wrote, California Notebooks 02, this poem in on page 50.
*
I could just imagine
the stars heaped up
behind the full moon
I could see them
scattered a geography
of the desert sky
some move my eyes
as across a landscape
an imagined horizon
.
.
Come with me today to my poetry reading in the Coachella Valley in California!
It will take you only 3’09” to be with me and virtually fly there as I introduce you to my poems.
The book I’m reading from, California Notebooks 01 was written there. I wanted to give back to the desert, with this reading, the inspiration it bestowed on me.
This book is dedicated
to those souls whose flesh is too tight
to those whose dreams are real and reality seems
to be a dream
Do subscribe to my YouTube channel too, please, as there will be more poetic work posted there as well. I will appreciate that as well as you comments here below or on youtube.
Together we rock!
Thank you 🙏
*
having infinity
taking over me
that is my practice
in the desert
to rehearse boundless
to have a sip of
eternity once
in a while
.
.
Sunday’s posts are dedicated to Italian Poetry
*
il sole agostano
forte
penetra il fogliame
sangue
di ombre sulla terra
.
.
Tuesday Poems will be in English as usual.
Sì, la domenica le poesie saranno in italiano.
*
hearing steps
of life carried out
gasping one day
they will be no more
times rolls away
my finger fail to
halt it to stillness
.
.
*
when my words
surfacing out of
poetry define
who am I
I cry
I also
rejoice and
stand still as
if suspended
all at the same
exact
time holding
that tiny particle
of truth inside me
that shining in spite
of me
.
.
*
I end up at times
visiting old friends
dinners stretching
.
over time feeding
our souls
the privilege
.
of recalling
the spirit’s
visitations
.
our hearts
a candle burning
quietly
.
steadily shaking
in the evening
breeze leaves
.
we are made to fall
and to die
full of colors
.
when it’s season
.
.
“Not Rosaries Nor Missals” is a collections of poems started on July 2013. This poem comes from that collection.
l
*
life as a bird
an egg in a nest
in unexpected
places hidden
cared for and guarded
with parental
love cracking to
the first light revelation
being fed and
taught to sing
before I could fly out
into everlasting
.
.
.
*
I don’t think
heaven is upward
.
I don’t think
God is in the sky
but I think
God is in the air
.
when I look
up to the clouds
I fell God is
there up around
.
inside and
everywhere
God is like air
.
. 
.
Sunday’s posts are dedicated to Italian Poetry
*
come muore un cane
rannicchiato sempre
più stretto tra lunghi sonni
camminando a malapena
su due gambe quelle davanti
tremando quando mangia
sempre più stanco sempre
più piccolo che quasi
lo puoi prendere in braccio
dolcemente ti cerca
con gli occhi per un bacio
in più e la tua fronte sul suo naso
e per quell’attimo fermo silenzioso
prima dei miei complimenti
che incartano il magone
quella certezza che ogni
giorno insieme sia un dono
quel suo muoversi poco
sempre meno anche per
raggiungere il sole che scalda
le ossa storte doloranti
quel sospirare a fondo
quando racconta al gatto
qualcosa mentre lo segue
con gli occhi io cerco lui
e lo osservo immobile
per scovare il prossimo
respiro nella cassa toracica
ben delineata dalla magrezza
in mezzo a questa dolcezza
tra sorrisi mesti e lacrime
trattenute dentro come i fiori
che si chiudono la sera
come muore un cane
di vecchiaia
.
.
.
Ho scritto questa poesia a Giugno e la mia cagnolina fedele è morta l’11 Luglio 2020, ieri, dentro un corpo vecchio ma mi ha voluto, fino al suo ultimo respiro vicino a lei, tra carezze e sussurri e quello stupore immobile finale.
.
